<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>In All My Dreams I Drown by Kitkat_Chunky</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632557">In All My Dreams I Drown</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitkat_Chunky/pseuds/Kitkat_Chunky'>Kitkat_Chunky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Adventure Zone (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Argo please look up King you have a support system, Brainwashing, Canon Compliant, Fitzroy uses reassure! Its not effective!, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, References to Depression, Song fic, We as a society need to talk more about brainwashed Argo, descriptions of illness, if you squint you can pretend its not there, maplekeene but not a lot of it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:54:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,615</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632557</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitkat_Chunky/pseuds/Kitkat_Chunky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The world got quiet, it was never quite day or quite night,</em> <em><br/>And the sea turned the colour of sky, turned the colour of sea, turned the colour of ice,<br/>Till at last all around us was vastness, one glassy desert of arsenic white,<br/>And the waves that once lifted us, sifted instead into drifts against Annabel's side,</em><br/>- 'Another New World' by the Punch Brothers.</p><p>Argo frowned, perplex at the odd direction the conversation was turning. ‘Alright with the Thundermen?’ Was Fitzroy asking if he still wanted to be a member? That was ridiculous. Argo was one of its core members, wasn’t he? There was no way that Argo was giving off signals that he wanted to leave. Moreover, why was he bringing up Grey and Chaos so suddenly? Argo was small fish compared to Fitzroy’s potential, why would any deity find him worthy enough to target.</p><p>Argo has a 8k words long 'uh oh'. Set between episodes 25 and 26</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Argo Keene &amp; Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt, Argo Keene/Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In All My Dreams I Drown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The song is ‘Another New World’ by the Punch Brothers. My go-to Argonaut feels song. There something to be said about a song telling the story of a captain lamenting the loss of his crew and his ship in the fruitless pursuit of a better horizon…</p><p>Other inspirations (and blatant title steal) are ‘In All My Dreams I Drown’ by Jessica Lowndes, and ‘Lifeboat’ from the Heathers musical. Because I seem to be in a musical mood.</p><p>Shoutout to my friend, Cool-Gary, who’ve I’ve been chatting to about recent episodes! Your prompting was the thing that got me back up to finish these abandoned drafts.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>That spring we set sail, the crowds waved from the shore, and on board the crew waved their hats,</em> <em><br/>
But I never had family, just the Annabel Lee, so I never had cause to look back,<br/>
I just set the course north and I'd study the charts and towards dawn I drifted towards sleep,<br/>
And I dreamed of the fine deep harbour I'd find past the ice, for my Annabel Lee,</em></p><p>Argonaut Keene had grown accustomed to headaches.</p><p>Tiredness, nausea, loss of appetite, mildly uncomfortable ailments at best, tugged insistently at his sleeves like an old persistent friend. And in a way, it was.</p><p>On the sea, it wasn’t uncommon to succumb to the occasional spell of dizziness. No person could be at sea for long if they didn’t have an iron stomach and a strong sense of grounding. It was a consequence of an oceanic lifestyle, those who would pursue heights of freedom on the waves would equally have to deal with the lows of illness and isolation. Never knowing when they would next port, let alone see a doctor. They attuned themselves to recognising the fragile imbalance of their bodily humours as deftly as their ability to feel an oncoming storm. Ships passing whispers of maladies and their remedies, was a currency of its own. It was no wonder that sailors were known to be superstitious folk. A seafarer’s career could be swiftly culled if they were not intimately familiar with a repertoire of quick fixes. For Argonaut, those instructions were the first thing he had learnt after his letters.</p><p>Heading to the outermost marshes of Wiggenstaff’s ninth open-air training field, he recites the rituals again. Counting each mantra on his fingertips, just like he had done as a child. But the headache he was currently experiencing was making the process extremely difficult. His own aches never letting up since the tribunal. A fuzzy tingle at his temple and behind his eyes, that made his level of concentration feel lightly scrambled.</p><p>Argo quickened his pace not wanting to keep Master Firbolg and Fitzroy waiting, because he had stupidly decided to laze around in the dorm that morning, willing his eyes to adjust to the bright lights. He couldn’t let a slight flagging of health deter him, after all, a sickly pallor had dogged the three of them since the semester started. Under the circumstances, enduring a stress headache was a natural reaction to maintaining a study /prevent a demon war life-balance. Hoping that none of them were run-down enough to develop a fever, or heavens forbid scurvy, he lists through the solutions again.</p><p>Dizziness could be cured with freshwater and sleep. For seasickness, you would have to find a spot on the horizon and stare at it until the world melted away. His ma was a particular stickler for this. He could still see her now, a storm of auburn hair and rough edges, scolding new bleared-eyed recruits who were unfortunate enough to cross her path, for bringing maladies onto her ship. Her wide nose flaring in performative disapproval as she would list off the dangers of a weak link in a chain, rusted and loosened from lack of care, could set the whole ship adrift. The way she would gently manoeuvre them by the elbow to the bottom cabins of the deck, so she could feed them barrels of water and pouches filled with apricots until they recovered enough strength to sheepishly return upside. She would have suggested that his migraines must be chased down with mint in dark rooms, and loneliness with healthy company.  </p><p>Healthy company, however, was harder to find now.</p><p>Argo shook his head to dislodge that thought from his mind; he wasn’t alone. If anything, his circle of confidants had grown far beyond what he had expected when he first got his hands on the Wiggenstaff’s acceptance letter. The bleak years between the Mariah and Wiggenstaff’s, when he could not guarantee a place to sleep every night, replayed far off and hazy as if it had happened to some other man. Only rematerialising in ugly flashes when he looked down at fresh produce like bread. His stomach prematurely flipping at the dinner table, as his mind still expected the taste of the slimy tang of growing fungi to be hidden within every morsel. The desperate and angry teenager who shared Argonaut’s name, the one who existed in dark alleyways and cursed the world for his unlucky existence, had long disappeared. Having melted the moment, he had placed his bags in his new home. Yes, he was certain. The friends he had made was worth any hardship life had thrown at him. Each connection a lifeline that kept him docked and safe in the onslaught of insanity that the demon war brought.</p><p>Mustering some energy with a crooked apologetic smile and faux swagger, Argo broke into a light jog up to the small gathering in the field. If he was going to be late, he may as well play it off as a part of his roguish charm than be chewed out for tardiness. It seemed he was in luck, as only the Firbolg looked up in acknowledgement to Argo’s stroll. Fitzroy was absorbed in doing his morning stretches, while Ramos and Crabtree, their chaperones, were engrossed in conversation, hunched over a creaking metal contraption which spluttered mist and strangely sparkling murky water into the atmosphere.</p><p>Since the three of them had been officially inducted into the Unbroken Chain, the society had immediately set about training them. Their task today was to practice fighting against hordes. “This baby can push out enough water spirits to drown you before you can say ‘ready’!” Crabtree exclaimed, happily thumping the side of her shaky machine. In actuality, it took slightly more time than she estimated, just long enough for Argonaut to write a mental note to order some ginger to chew on, to remedy his swooping stomach when Fitzroy offered a small smile when he finished his stretches. Before the sparking bubbles of water condense, forming small fat bodies, their arms polished to razor-sharp points, charges at them. </p><p>Thinking came easier to him in battle, because there was very little time to do any thinking at all. Any physical ailment would be washed away in the thrum of adrenaline. 1) Just map out the movement of enemies and do whatever was within his power to stop them. 2) Stay close to his teammates and don’t get flattened. Simple enough. Switching to autopilot, Argo slashed at the small creatures indistinguishably. Words of self-affirmation, and mockery bubble easily from his throat. Overlapping each other in a continuous stream of consciousness that barely reached his ears. Every sailor worth his salt knew that the sharp cut of a person’s panache could embed itself as deeply into an enemy as a well-placed stab.</p><p>However, it was…a little macabre to slash at the water spirits. Their heavy bloated bodies burst like water balloons, soaking the ground beneath them with watery entrails that made the terrain particularly difficult to manoeuvre. But the genasi pushed through it in his plan to protect his druid friend who was finding himself surrounded.</p><p>“It is fine Argo; I have a handle on it.” Argo almost couldn’t hear him, as the Firbolg’s timbre matched the rumble of the ground swelling up beneath them. Argo nimbly scrambles out of the way in time, narrowly dodging the stems and fauna that erupts around him, bursting five of the enemies around them in a neat circle. </p><p>The shock of watching his friend’s display of magic barely sets in before Fitzroy gifts him a boyish grin from across the field. His mallet had swung wide and true, crushing two of the apparitions in a single hearty wallop. His cheeks rosy and hair plastered to his face from the sweat of the workout was almost enough to distract Argo from the pop of liquid that gushed over the grass.</p><p>Half not wanting to be left out again and half caught in the spectacle, Argo decides to dash towards a cluster that was forming at Fitzroy’s side. “On your left, fancy lad.” Argo smoothly flourished Florence in a single motion, catching one of them in the upward arc and two more on the way down. The slice isn’t perfect, only just barely glazing the brow of the third one. But hearing Fitzroy laugh, airy light and without a hint of judgement, instantaneously dusted away the cobwebs on his heart.</p><p>The two shifts easily into a familiar dance on the battlefield, long grown accustomed to each other’s fighting style. They hack and slash through the crowd around them. Argo yelling “sneak attack!” both as a legitimate war cry and as a ruse to allow Fitzroy to blindside them from behind.</p><p>“Sorry to burst your bubble Fitz, but you have to pay attention.”</p><p>Fitzroy playfully scoffs at the attempt at humour, slipping out only the word “Terrible,” mid-relentless attack.</p><p>Fitzroy still had not gotten used to the art of witty combat banter, the concept so strange and foreign to him at the beginning of the year, that he had thrown a temper tantrum during their first friendly duel. Claiming that Argo was cheating somehow, and that talking was not how honourable fights were supposed to be enacted. However, time had loosened the half-elf considerably from the faux-noblemen Argo had known before. Cussing, and engagement in conversation were still stilted, but he thrived in underhand gloating and self-boasting in a way that only villains would know. He fought like a madman, slinging lightning bolts with haphazard confidence at his enemies and ramming his full weight onto others with the delicacy of an ox. A far-cry from the stiff practiced sword stances from the first semester. It was awe-inspiringly frightening in a way that sometimes-made Argo feel breathless, as if he was the one who had ended up on the unfortunate side of Fitzroy’s maul.</p><p>“Watch this!” Fitzroy whoops suddenly, lifting his maul skyward. Knowing that Fitzroy enjoyed preening for a crowd, Argo greedily watches similar to how a dehydrated man would desperately gulp water. Unfortunately placing himself in a front-row seat to the upcoming chaos, as Fitzroy’s impulsivity takes over and the barbarian thundersteps.</p><p>The air explodes in a cacophony of light and sound. A split-second flash of pure white licks Argonaut’s eyeballs and sends him into a blind panic. Next came the thunder. Piercing the sky and rattling the atmosphere with a potent fury. The tidal wave of electrical currents slams hard into Argo’s side, a side effect of being too close to impact, rag-dolling him halfway across the field. He awkwardly tries to roll into it, wrapping his arms over his face to protect himself from debris. But it makes no difference, every spirit left on the field instantly evaporating into the ether. Leaving him completely prone.</p><p>It’s the hell dimension all over again, and Argo feels just as useless against its pull as before.</p><p>Cowering in the long grass, the world comes back in hazy splotches and distant yelling. He was paralyzed. A victim of disorientation, the thunderman drifts in and out of consciousness. Leaving only himself alone in the void of sound; his shaky breath mingles with the damp mud beneath him, collecting a small cluster of dew drops. The nausea that he had been carrying all morning in his stomach bubbles over and before he could register it, he had heaved up a salty blob of vibrant green vomit onto his hands.</p><p>“-ou alright?”</p><p>Crap, when did the Firbolg sneak up on him?</p><p>“I’m sorry buddy, I don’t know what you mean.” He manages to squeak out in between swallowing bile.</p><p>The Firbolg bends into Argonaut’s view, a fuzzy silhouette of green in the corner of his eye. “You are not in a blame-taking class. They are similar, but not the same. You do not need to hide that you are struggling.”</p><p>The thought hadn’t occurred to him until that moment. He’s struggling. He’s struggling to catch up in front of his crew. A crew who needs him to be in healthy strength.</p><p>He wishes his ma was here to take him below deck and allow him time to compose himself.</p><p>Master Firbolg, twice his size, envelopes him, clogging every sense. Fitzroy’s head pokes out from behind the Firbolg’s shoulder, returning back from wherever he had teleported. He looks at Argo, at the small pile of vomit, and back at Argo again, eyes wide and bottom lip quivering. And Argo’s traitorous heart bleeds.</p><p>--------------------</p><p><em>After that it got colder. The world got quiet, it was never quite day or quite night,</em> <em><br/>
And the sea turned the colour of sky, turned the colour of sea, turned the colour of ice,<br/>
Till at last all around us was vastness, one glassy desert of arsenic white,<br/>
And the waves that once lifted us, sifted instead into drifts against Annabel's side,</em></p><p>Most days felt like a dream. A mirage of thick hot steam that penetrates his nostrils and sits heavily within his lungs.</p><p>Especially when he was alone.</p><p>Fitzroy had left to prepare for a meeting with Rainer’s dad, while Master Firbolg was gone to check on Sabour, leaving Argo, as usual, to twiddle his thumbs and wait for them to get back. Cramped in the corner of his bed with his study materials, trying to not let them overspill and take too much of the room. Their dorm was already overfilled with piles of food (friend Firbolg’s) and clothes (Fitzroy’s) alongside other bits of junk and paraphernalia. The mess was… bothering him… a little bit. Just a little bit. – More so than a handful, but not a lot. He could live with it. That was an old sailing tic kicking in, swabbing the proverbial deck was an essential part of living on a ship. But, he felt uncomfortable cleaning up in the shared dorm room. Because that would be the same as rooting through their stuff, and he’s already made enough of a pig’s ass out of proving he was worthy of guarding their personal secrets. Even though they had joined the Unbroken Chain. Spying was still spying. And Argo was never comfortable at being the one to rock the boat. It was one of the reason’s why the sidekick course suited him best. His aptitude for sneaking had somehow crafted him into a person who could never stick out from a crowd. Destined to always be a second thought.</p><p>From the corner of his eye, he watches Schrödinger appear from thin air onto the countertop. The shifting mass that barely resembled a cat, considered Argo as if he was the one who had intruded, and not vice-versa. That was another thing to consider, he added. ‘Can’t go rummaging around the place like a loon when the headmaster’s eyes were watching. Or with the Gary on the other side of the room as well. In all honesty, Argonaut couldn’t remember which party knew what, and who was working with who anymore.</p><p>He tries not to dwell too much on the surreal nature of his circumstances.</p><p>Instead, he takes another look at the book that was precariously balanced on his knees. Classes were a blissful break from these worries. So Argo took to them with relish, enjoying the challenge of coaxing answers out of his heavy textbooks, even when his results reflected back that academia still hadn’t grown a liking to him. It brought back the familiar joys of childhood; of the small bundles of second-hand books wrapped in twine his ma procured from ports. Huddled under dim lamplight of the lowest decks of the ship, the hero’s adventures brought easy tranquillity, and Argo devoured them with frightening gusto. The slosh of the water beneath his stomach, a gentle soundtrack to his tracing of Larry the Lime from memory from the book to notebooks.</p><p>In adulthood, complex literature was still too daunting a task to take on. But he was drawn to the old leather-bound scripts at the back of the library. Sympathetic towards the stained covers and edges frayed with decades of mishandling. Not understanding why anyone would turn their noses up at the buried treasure of manuscripts. He did not consider himself to be a dramatic person, but, there was a undeniable catharsis that came with reading the soliloquies. The practice of characters expressing their feelings unabashed and free-flowing for pages upon pages was a guilty pleasure of his.</p><p>Although, he didn’t recognise this particular script in front of him. It was a story about a man who had willingly sold his soul to a devil to pursue his dreams of building a new government. It was recommended by Rainer several weeks ago when she had caught wind of his one-man theatre club. Gushing that it was a classic from the genre and that she was surprised that he had never heard of it before because it was on most schools reading lists.</p><p>A wave of bitterness had swept over him involuntarily at the comment. Not because of Rainer, but because he did not like to be reminded, accidently or not, that he never had an opportunity to go to school until now. Maybe he would have been familiar with a “classic from the genre”, if he had had the opportunity to go to school in his teenage years. And not moving from lodging to lodging, drafting a revenge plot against the man who betrayed his mother. <em>One that ultimately came to nothing because the bastard got away because he was feeling too soft-hearted and-</em></p><p>A proper education, that wouldn’t leave him feeling so… slow on the uptake sometimes.</p><p>Argo tries to brush the thoughts to the side. He was only feeling irritable because for whatever reason he was struggling to sleep. That was it. It’s a symptom of stress to wake up in the middle of the night, paralysed with fear because he swore that his bed was sinking into the brink of a red void. Feed a cold, starve a fever, he reminds himself again. Whatever it is, it will pass. His head was only feeling as if its contents had been scrapped out with a knife and replaced with cotton, because he was alone today, and therefore there was no one to distract him from his woes. When he was with his friends, it is easy to soak in their energies and magnify them to make them his own, but when alone, exhaustion wracked his bones and numbed his senses.</p><p>Resolving to lay down and not wake until he was in a better mood, he absently flicks through the rest of the text, making a mental note on how much he should try to achieve from it tomorrow. One particular page jumped out at him. A double spread image of the protagonist’s dreamscape depicted for the use of production crews to copy. It was from the penultimate act, where some last-minute foreshadowing could be shoehorned in. The devil, Levistus, twisting the mortal’s ear about natural balance, and sun and moon imagery, and some other nonsense philosophy, too pretentiously eggy and complex for Argo’s tastes.</p><p>“Too complex for my tastes.” He mutters to himself and the empty room. Desperate to hear his own voice and acknowledge his own existence even if it was just to the small trinkets. The sound came out dull and croaked, rusted from a day without use.</p><p>He tilts his head as he looks at the devilish caricature again. It did look familiar, but not too familiar. A tall horned beast, with a pale complexion adorned in medals and velvet towered over the unfortunate victim. Arms outstretched to welcome his disciple, but his sharp teeth that arranged itself in a smug grin, hinted the devil’s delight on a successful hunt. While the protagonist, sat heavy on his knees, an insignificant speck against the ashy red landscape. In one arm he clutches a dagger close to his chest, its serrated edge a breath away from the soft meat of his neck in an act of dramatized self-mutilation. His other arm raised sky-bound, reaching out to the demon mid-gesticulation, in his faustian bargain. Argo swallowed down the raw sand in his throat in empathy, he already knew how unpleasant the hell dimension could be.</p><p>He placed the book down to see that Schrödinger had joined him on the bed. Normally, the ghost cat would be on him instantly, purring and sitting on his textbooks insistently trying to demand for the fish jerky that Argo carried in his pockets. But this afternoon, the incorporeal cat was distant. Surveying Argonaut on all fours, its tail swishing anxiously. Hoping to calm it, Argo reached out to scratch it behind the ear. He still wasn’t a fan of animals, but the two had built a shaky truce with each other over the year regardless. Cautiously the creature bent down to smell his fingers and then suddenly flinched, momentarily flickering in and out of existence. Healthy company was hard to find nowadays and he won’t turn his nose up at- Ouch! Yelping, Argo jumped back in surprise. It bit him! He barely had enough time to consider what was wrong, before he had to uncannily dodge another swipe when Schrödinger pounced on him again. After a moment of struggle, where he thoroughly weighed up the endurability of a magic kitten, he had successfully manoeuvred the bugger off the bed.</p><p>Argo looked at the cat incredulously, “What the hell is going on with you? I didn’t do anything to you! I thought we were becoming friends. Why does the world have it out for me recently?”</p><p>The smoky blob narrowed its yellow eyes and hissed venomously before suddenly dematerialising. “Fine. Go on then! Tell Higglemas that everything is going on just fine ‘n dandy! I’m holding down the fort here, no one’s gonna dare attack this hallway while I’m here. I’ve got the whole kit and caboodle down pat. But I won’t be feeding you next time if your gonna continue to be rude about it.” Argo said indignantly to the air. Hate festering in the pit of his stomach.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>He’s doing it again.</p><p>He feels like he’s losing his mind.</p><p>As he placed his face into his hands, the painted eyes of the demon watched hungrily from the page. Glassy eyes and sharp teeth poised for the hunt. But under the oak tree, later that night, Grey’s smile was much sweeter.</p><p>--------------------</p><p><em>And the crew gathered closer,</em> <em><br/>
At first for the warmth, but each day would bring a new set of tracks,<br/>
In the snow leading over the edge of the world till I was the only one left,</em></p><p>Argo’s head had lifted from his pillow before he could register the movement. A lingering touch on his temples, and a scream rattling in his throat.</p><p>There was <em>something</em> standing beside his bed. A black cold void of space that resembled the shadow of a tall man. Every trained instinct Argo had cultivated over the years was screaming at him to gather the strength to retrieve the small butterfly knife he had hidden under his pillow. Plans on how to attack it, how to protect himself, faintly whistled past his eyes. This thing was dangerous. Yet, Argo could only watch in mute horror, his legs toed by the bedsheets, as the dark figure moved. Powerless against the thumping of his head and the rush in his ears.</p><p>Tauntingly slow, the shadow removed its claws from his temple to make a beckoning motion.</p><p>But just as suddenly as it had appeared, the mirage altered. The figure shortened, transforming into a wider frame, with a mop of brown hair, and a buttoned pyjama top that barely hid the brand and other mismatch of scars along his chest.</p><p>A ripple of relief raced through Argo as air returned to his lungs. It was just Fitzroy. It must have been Fitzroy who had touched him. Argo gripped hard at the bedsheets to stop himself from jumping out of bed and into his arms. Caving instantly to any physical comfort.</p><p>The half-elf was leaning heavily over Argo’s bed, eyes wide and eyebrows shot high enough that they disappeared into his fringe. The barbarian was out of breath, his hands hovering outstretched over Argo’s body, poised to lunge, as if he needed to suddenly jump forward and make a desperate grab for him. “Did you see anyone?” he asked in a rushed single outtake of breath, the words practically on top of each other in their delivery. “You were-, My magic has been freaking out and, uh, I thought I sensed something. And you were groaning, not that type of groaning, I wasn’t, er, trying to be creepy, but you were not, um, shit, did you see someone here?” he finished lamely.</p><p>Argo mentally cursed himself. Fitzroy was still battling bouts of paranoia, his short trances meaning that he would spend most of the night awake and thus was more susceptible to night terrors. He must have done something in his sleep to set Fitzroy off.</p><p>Argo took a moment to will the double vision from his eyes. He felt like shit. His vision was slightly blurred in the corners, and his breaths were short and clipped, his lungs acting as if he had only just resurfaced from holding his breath too long. The perspiration he had accumulated mixed with his snotty nose, and itchy eyes with each staggered gasp he took. Worst, there was a pressure in his head as if a coin was being pressed into his brain. Slowly roaming in the underlayer of his skin. “Take a deep breath.” He garbled, to Fitzroy and half to himself. The genasi quickly tried to give him a reassuring smile. Clearly, Fitzroy needed help, and Argo would answer that call no matter how battered he felt.</p><p>Fitzroy floundered for a moment before finally clamping his mouth shut. Shuffling to the side so that Argo could get out of bed.</p><p>Since returning from their fateful centaur trip, the roommate’s nightly ritual had drastically changed. Nights of sickly food binges and impromptu study sessions were now few and far between. Leaving only in its wake long restless nights, where the three of them would huddle in the dark to try to recount their dreams. Clutching their coffee mugs in the face of the storm. Neither Argo nor the Firbolg, had raised an eye when one night after a visit from Chaos, Fitzroy had moved his mattress out of his room and into their shared one. Facing the barrel of the gun of their impending apocalypse made any wording of their need to be close unnecessary. But Argo did wish that they could talk about it. That they could talk about anything to be honest.</p><p>To his surprise, Argo saw that the Firbolg was lying on the floor next to his bed, nestled half underneath Argo’s bedframe. Head and knees merging with the empty boxes and knick-knacks that he kept under his bed. Firby was usually a heavy sleeper, once he falls to his faux-hibernation he would become immovable from his spot on the far side of the room. Whatever event that had caused his friend to split up from the rest of the group earlier that day must have taken a toll, for the giant to have rolled across the room. It was his decision to not speak on the matter further, but his shuddering form now, curled into itself as if willing to disappear from the world in his sleep, could not stop Argo’s heart from aching at not knowing what to do for him. Gently, Argo shifted around his dozing dormmate and placed his ratty duvet on the Firbolg’s shoulders. Remorsefully Argo tore his eyes away from Bud and back to sorting out Fitzroy. No matter how much his heart ached in wanting to fix things. To do anything and everything for the people he cared most about. He knew he wasn’t smart enough to figure out what they needed. He should ask the Firbolg tomorrow about what had happened.</p><p>Fitzroy clung to his side, still taking in shaky breaths that merged with the low rumble of the boiling kettle. His eyes were still as wide as saucers, periodically flickering between Argo, the sleeping form of the Firbolg, and the dark corners of the room. As if either one of them would disappear the moment he would turn his attention to the kettle.</p><p>Even as the two silently stowed away into Fitzroy’s room, Fitzroy never tore his gaze from Argo for long. Whatever he’d seen must have shaken him to the core. Only pausing to summon snippers to survey the perimeter of the small room. Argo took the moment when Fitzroy turned his back to wipe away the sleep and moisture from his eyes. Unsurprised by how much his arms shook in the movement. He couldn’t blame Fitzroy for being so worked up, Argo himself felt as if he had just ran a marathon, even if he couldn’t remember what his dream was about. The anxiety in the air must be contagious, he thinks. The pair of them must have looked a state.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Argo asked, settling the both of them on the empty bedframe.</p><p>Fitzroy deflated immediately, shoulders curving into themselves. “I should be asking you that…” he half-heartedly replied.</p><p>So there was a problem, Argo surmised, looking his friend once over. The problem with Fitzroy was that the half-elf was shockingly easy to read. Argo couldn’t pretend that he knew all the inner machinations of his friend’s mind, but it was always evident to see the cogs of it moving when he thought. Next to Master Firbolg, Fitzroy’s face was downright lively. A barbarian trait, he guessed. So there was rarely a moment when Argonaut couldn’t tell when something was on his mind. Fitzroy’s tongue may be made of silver, but that didn’t stop it from being a heavy metal that weighed on his jaw. Giving him a permanent dour expression that waned in the dim moonlight.</p><p>“No offence Argo, but you were flailing your arms kinda wildly back there.” He continued, “I thought you were going to get me with a right hook for a moment. I mean, you could of, and I would have tanked it – obviously- but it didn’t seem like you, uh, were doing well.” Finally, his features settled into a thin layer of discomfort. “Are you doing alright, friend?”</p><p>“Yes, I’m fine.” Argonaut found himself saying, filling in the gap of silence on autopilot before he could fully process the question. “‘M Sorry I woke ya’, Fitz. Honestly, I think I was just having a bad dream.” Argo shrugged, lost on what else he could possibly say about it.</p><p>“Are you sure?” Fitzroy pressed on, his brow furrowing. “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone? Or felt anything odd in your dreams? I know you have an over-active imagination sometimes, but can you think for a moment. Our dreams haven’t just been dreams of late, so I would appreciate if you told me if you saw anything pertinent in your sleep. And please don’t try to lie about it, it’s unbecoming.”</p><p>Argo frowned at the insinuation. <em>Does he think I’m a liar?</em> There genuinely wasn’t anything he remembered from his short doze. He had hit the hay immediately after the hellhound battle, too exhausted from his sudden trip to Rainer’s homestead to do much else when they finally arrived back at their dorm. He had slept no more than a handful of hours, and than had briefly not recognised Fitzroy in his stupor when he awoke, that was it. “I wouldn’t hide that from you Fitzroy. If I knew anything helpful, I would tell you.” He slowly articulates, the words feeling oddly heavy on his tongue. “I think-, the dogs are still playing on my mind y’anno.” He added, hoping to calm his nerves. “A couple of them ran back into the woods, and that’s getting on my nerves, ‘cause they’re just out there now, and who knows when they’ll be jumping back to bite us in the ass.”</p><p>Fitzroy nodded sagely, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Yes, that’s when they usually strike in stories, right when you least expect it. I, for one, am not concerned.” Colour was returning to his cheeks, Argo noted with a small sense of satisfaction. Good, they didn’t need more of the team feeling unwell. <em>But Fitzroy getting stronger is the cause of all their problems isn’t it.</em> A small voice echoed back.</p><p>Fitzroy raised his head defiantly, looking around the room with a sudden burst of renewal. “Grey’s the type of coward to play unfairly, and as a villain myself I find his schemes amateur and completely predictable at best. I’m ready and waiting for a sudden sneak attack, but I can see why you would be concerned.”</p><p>Argo fiddled with the hem of his pyjama bottoms, electing to not overanalyse the statement. Surely, Fitzroy was only trying to bolster his own self-confidence, and not imply that Argo was worrying for nothing. He could get a little lost in his monologues, he rationalises.</p><p>But that did not prevent the room from settling into an awkward silence. There was still something wrong in the air, but the genasi was too far past the point of exhaustion to figure out where the energy was emanating from. Instead, Argo counted his affirmations, easing the rapid beating of his heart. The bed, the wall, the windowsill, and the gaping darkness beyond. Not Fitzroy, he couldn’t bear to register him right now. The half-elf was still scrutinising him, his fright from several minutes ago hardly visible now. Argo cowered under its weight, adverting his eyes in shame. Logically, he knew he had not done anything, but he felt the same sinking sensation in his gut to when they were at the tribunal, or the headmaster’s office. Small worthless, and guilty of a crime he wasn’t sure he had committed.</p><p>Reacting with surprising speed for someone so large, Fitzroy leaned into Argo’s shrinking form, placing a rough and heavy hand on his shoulder.</p><p>“Argonaut, can I be frank with you?” <em>That would be a first for us, </em>the voice in Argonaut’s head exclaimed. “You’ve been a bit poorly of late- “</p><p>Argo fought against the tightening of muscles, and growing sense to flee as Fitzroy clasped his shoulder. “You don’t say-”</p><p>“And-, I’m not-, Comforting others, is not one of my repertoire of strong suits. But I hope you do view me as someone you could ‘shoot the breeze’ with. Leaving all professionalism at the door, it’s apt to say that the past couple of days have been hell. So, if you want to confide any grievances. I wouldn’t be too averse to the idea. If-,um, I’m going to be honest with you right now Argonaut, so don’t laugh. But, I woke up because I felt a disturbance with my magic, and for a moment I thought I sensed Grey. And he seemed so-, It doesn’t matter. What matters, is that I saw you thrashing, and Chaos could try to swarm itself into any of our dreams to try and confuse us at any time, you understand. So, um,- What I mean to ask -” Fitzroy’s brief moment of composure was crumbling fast. “Are you alright here, at Wiggenstaff’s, with the Thundermen?”</p><p>Argo frowned, perplex at the odd direction the conversation was turning. ‘Alright with the Thundermen?’ Was Fitzroy asking if he still wanted to be a member? That was ridiculous. Argo was one of its core members, wasn’t he? There was no way that Argo was giving off signals that he wanted to leave. Moreover, why was he bringing up Grey and Chaos so suddenly? The genasi racked the tired shackles of his brain, hoping to find any new information that would make him useful. Yet, the empty space where his recollection of his dreams would be, echoed back empty and hollow. It was true that there was always the possibility that Chaos could call on any one of them once again, like the night he had seen the vision of the future. But Argo doubted that he would be called in alone. Argo was small fish compared to Fitzroy’s potential; why would any deity find him worthy enough to target? They would not bother to register him as a threat, he was certain.</p><p>Fitzroy wouldn’t push him out of the group for being a weak link, would he?</p><p>Nonetheless, it felt good to be offered a chance to talk. Fitzroy was a tough nut to crack, he could be easily upset and in need of support like most people. But the CEO rarely invited opportunities to sit down and talk about emotional baggage. He didn’t bleed openly with every turn of the wind like Argo did. So the offer was sent a wave of warmth through his chest. It was nice to know that Fitzroy was trying for him.</p><p><em>He’s only humouring you. </em>Said another voice, cold and distant<em>. Now’s not the time to put any more weight on his shoulders.</em></p><p>He coughed to relieve the tension from his throat. He didn’t know where the thought had come from, but he threw every argument to the wall in hope that any of them would stick and prove him wrong. To prove to Fitzroy that he was better than that. There was so many things he wanted to talk about. He wanted them to know that he loved them, even if the love for each member was different, every moment spent with them was perfect. He fought uphill to be a part of those simple days, even now when they dwindled in number, he fought hard to be a part of that joy, and not apart from it.</p><p>Argo takes a deep breath in and starts. “Firby and you… The both of you are the most important people in my life. ‘An I’m not embarrassed to admit that. I never thought I would be so lucky, to have people in my life again, y’know. I wouldn’t trade our time for the whole world. True, there’s been a few bumps in the road. But I’ll always be here, waiting in the wings.”</p><p>Argonaut paused. Fitzroy’s grip on his shoulder was rapidly tightening, lightly bruising the softer scales under his shirt. The rambled string of interlinked promises died in his throat. The small moment of intimacy that Argonaut desperately craved completely thrown in wonderment. A steely look of resolve was dawning on the half-elf’s face. The emotion had momentarily stunned Argo because he had not been on the receiving end of such a look since childhood. It was the same face of resolve that his mother would have when he would rouse from a nightmare. A kind and hazy memory that exaggerated the irregular beating of his heart.</p><p>“You’re an important asset to the team.” He injected. “And call it my knightly instincts but I can look after you. I won’t let you fall behind.”</p><p>Argo felt the hot prickle of pride swell in his throat, suddenly awash with a sense of indignancy. The hope that they would come to some sort of understanding dashed to the rocks. This wasn’t as simple as falling behind in combat. “I’m not intending to be getting into trouble Fitz,” </p><p>Fitzroy was still hanging on unaware of how much he was clamping down. The barbarians grip a vice as if Argo would slip away.</p><p>“I know you don’t <em>intend</em> to. I just want you out of danger when possible.”</p><p>Argonaut knew full well that a genasi could not drown, yet the pressure of the festering turmoil was shattering. Fitzroy clearly didn’t understand why Argo had reacted the way he had, as he watched with pitying eyes from across the bedspread.</p><p>“I’m fine Fitzroy, I want to go to bed.” Said a being who controlled Argonaut’s lips.  </p><p>Fitzroy made a noise that implied that he didn’t actually think things were fine. Before reluctantly conceding, letting the ghostly shadow that resembled his loyal sidekick float back to his bed.</p><p>Argo flopped around in his bed, struggling to find a comfortable position. To his surprise, as he rolled around for what felt like the tenth time, he realised that Fitzroy hadn’t returned to his mattress. Instead, the half-elf was sitting cross-legged, back leaning against the wall staring directly at Argo.</p><p>“Are you gonna be watching me?”</p><p>Even with his lack of dark vision, Fitzroy’s darken cheeks was the brightest thing he had seen all day. “I trance Argo you know this-</p><p>“Oh, right. Sorry Fitz, I guess I am pretty tired.”</p><p>“It’s okay Argo, please get some rest.” Fitzroy breathed out, low and weary, its scratchy intonation melding into the quiet reverence in the room.</p><p>If he was honest, he could never tell when Fitzroy was trancing, usually, he would turn politely to the wall. The thought made him uneasy. A vigil shadow of a man across the room. An hour later, Argo would blearily open one eye to see if Fitzroy had finally succumbed to sleep. Promptly shutting it tight in embarrassment when Fitzroy blinked.</p><p>Argo couldn’t tell when Fitzroy or himself had fallen asleep that night. Or if either of them slept at all.</p><p>--------------------</p><p><em>We talked of the other new worlds we'd discover, as she gave up her body to me,</em> <em><br/>
And as I chopped up her mainsail for timber, I told her of all that we still had to see,<br/>
As the frost turned her moorings to nine-tails and the winds lashed her sides in the cold,<br/>
I burned her to keep me alive every night in the loving embrace of her hold,</em></p><p>It felt a farce to call it a secret war when most of the students were aware that they were no longer safe in their beds.</p><p>Shellshocked students, ones who were brave enough to leave the confines of their bedrooms, swarmed the breakfast tables, anxious to grab their food and leave as soon as possible. Like rats rushing from a ship in fear of the approaching storm.</p><p>One round table had gathered a crowd of grim-faced onlookers, congregating around a student who, Argo realised with a start, was one of the victims of the hellhound attack the previous night. He had cut the rope that bound them to the tree right next to her wrist, which still looked sore and red. She paused in her recounts, staring right past Argo, to motion with emphasis to Fitzroy. Sending the rest of the occupants into a storm of shared tentative glances, and hushed whispers. No sign of recognition in her eyes towards Argo.</p><p>The genasi added it as another thing to his list of things that were ticking him off. He was incredibly irritable this morning. Hadn’t slept a wink that night, the battle and his conversation with Fitzroy replaying mockingly over and over in his head. An intrusive voice in the back of his head wouldn’t stop chatting to him about how every action he had taken was wrong. Moreover, his migraines had only intensified. The one moving spot had multiplied over his scalp, prodding insistently on his brain that he wanted to bash his head into the wall. stretching his skin gaunt whenever he spoke. Thudding a consistent rhythm with his heartbeat.</p><p>How many hellhounds had he taken out? One? Maybe two. He had been wailing on them for a while. But Fitzroy had roasted three of them without looking. Arm clamped on his shoulder, daring him to do better.</p><p>One was a runt, echoed a voice back to him.</p><p>He wasn’t naïve enough to think that even the smallest of dogs wouldn’t have torn a student apart, every kill was necessary. <em>But he could have felled more</em>, his subconscious echoed back.</p><p>Even the fact that he was angry, angered him. Usually, he would pride himself on being a relatively calm person. A friendly face in the crowd for those who needed it. Someone that others could rely on. He wasn’t without feelings, he enjoyed a good laugh, and fell in love fast and openly with anyone who would give him the time of day. But his emotional baggage had never been so acidic. It was easy to deflect his anger when he could focus it on his goal on finding the Commodore. However, now that he had disappeared into the wind; what did that leave Argo?</p><p>Firby could smell the rancid air from Argo, he was sure of it. He looked up at his friends. The Firbolg looked worst for wear, despondent to the world around him. He still hadn’t bothered to tell him what happened at his old clan.</p><p>If the Firbolg had created a distance, then Fitzroy grew closer. His roommate appeared to be everywhere this morning. Volunteering to carry his work supplies. And ‘just so happening’ to try and use the bathroom at the same time as Argo. In the halls, Fitzroy hovers just a breath away. Leaning in when Argo turns his head, engulfing the space, and obscuring his vision. It used to be nice on the rare times where they use to do this. When they both use to lean towards each other during a light-hearted argument or when an authority figure was talking bullshit, and they would share a glance, knowing what the Thundermen were going to do. Argo would love to self-indulge in hovering skin and tentative glances and pretend that Fitzroy could sense the electric air between them. The air was still electric between them now.</p><p>
  <em>Fitzroy could fry you in an instant.</em>
</p><p>On purpose or not, Fitzroy was orbiting.</p><p>Scenes and figures quickly came and went passing congratulations for their success and condolences for the situation, Each face merging to a grey sludge to Argo’s fevered mind. Simultaneously too fast and too slow. One being Althea Song. Her usual prim appearance had lost its polished lustre, hairs poking out from her top-knot in a bouquet of frizzled ends. That turned out to be a dead-end, she couldn’t do anything about the heroic oversight guild. Argo understood, it wasn’t her fault, what could she do. His heart twinged. Not everyone had the power to move mountains.</p><p>Argo struggled against the green haze. “I think you should cut her some slack. I think she understands the political situation much better than we do and if she says that they can’t help, than they can’t help. I’m on your side. I understand, completely.”</p><p>The only light in the storm was the golden glint of the magical rings that they had been given. Fitzroy was admiring his hand, the thing glinting in the light. A lighthouse among rocks. A ring of magical detection and a ring that translated truth to lies. Both were insanely powerful items in their own rights. In comparison, his ring felt lesser. A ring for spying on others. It felt like a waste of resources, he was already efficient with sneaking, and had enough of spying for a lifetime. He was suddenly taken by the thought that no one truly knew him. Disappearing into the crowd was all he ever known, from narrow streets after the death of his mother, to the halls of Wiggenstaff’s now. There would be no trace of Argonaut Keene. Argo kicked at dust, frustration rumbling at his throat. The mortifying weight of not being truly known by anyone was suffocating.</p><p>Something stupid and reckless clawed in his throat. “Does it not make sense to give all the rings to one person. To combine- no it’s fine.”</p><p>The pretty bastard was leaning back into Argo’s space again. Moving suffocatingly close, Fitzroy looked down at Argonaut like a mother would do to comfort her infant child. Mortification flaring under his gills, Argo is suddenly taken by the thought of shoving the prim bastard to the ground. “If it is that important to you Argo, you seem very up in arms about it, I’ll trade rings with you.”</p><p>“Well no-“</p><p>“No, lets trade-“</p><p>“No, no,-it’s fine.” <em>This wasn’t worth talking about.</em> “It’s fine.”</p><p>There was an old-wives tale about genasis he had heard when he was young, ship-hands whispering about it behind their captain’s head. That sprays were made from water, and that their heads were filled with seafoam, which would dribble from its ears and mouth when they were dumbfounded, as they had no brain within them. That when the ditzy things were placed under too much pressure, they would pop like a balloon, leaving only the residue of bubbles in lieu of organs and a soul. Hideous and hurtful myths, that Argo had long ignored, knowing better. But now the fable comes back to himself clearly, repeating over and over in his head. He felt stupid, he felt light and floaty, and empty, and everything else those bastards had claimed he was.</p><p>He felt like a dizzying web of contradictions, and quandaries. Never knowing whether pulling the string would make him taunt or unravel. A stranger to himself, watching the shadow of where he should be through foggy glass.</p><p>“It’s fine.” Fitzroy repeated, all fondness in his voice. “You must still be tired, Argo.”</p><p>Pathetic. Pathetic at trying, and pathetic for thinking that the Thundermen would see him that way.</p><p>“We will talk of this later.” Said the Firbolg.</p><p>Fitzroy smiled and said something unintelligible, swept away in the tide that rushed against Argo’s ears, before heading back to the awaiting crowd in the cafeteria, his heavy velvet cape briefly whipping Argo’s side as he turned. With a self-satisfied smirk and a click of his heels, he had left Argo stranded.</p><p>Neither of them were there when he woke up the next morning.</p><p>--------------------</p><p><em>And I won't call it rescue,</em> <em><br/>
That brought me back here to the old world to drink and decline,<br/>
And pretend that the search for another new world was well worth the burning of mine,</em></p><p>Most days feel like a dream. A mirage of thick hot steam that penetrates his nostrils, and sits heavily within his lungs. But the breath of the chasm reaches up as a soothing breeze.</p><p>Sailors are superstitious folk by nature. They never port on harbour for long, never stay with their crew forever. So they must find their own answers for illness. Dizziness from the abyss could be cured with freshwater and sleep. For seasickness, you would have to find a spot in the chasm and stare at it until the world melted away. For worn eyes was a full stomach. For a broken heart was childhood lullabies. And loneliness could be remedied with ridding oneself of toxic company.   </p><p>The vines shoot from the Firbolg’s palms defiant and true, but Argonaut’s blade strikes quicker. Embedding with no resistance into the soft folds of Fitzroy’s sides. Fitzroy floundered for a moment before finally clamping his mouth shut. His body is orbiting, suffocating the two of them in its closeness, so Argo feels no remorse at shoving him over the side of the canyon.</p><p>One weak link of the chain, rusted and loosened from lack of care, could set the whole ship adrift.</p><p>The Firbolg screams, Fitzroy screams, the chasm screams. But as the thorns of the whip wrapped itself around his flesh, ‘Argonaut’ breathed a sigh of gratification, the fog finally clearing.</p><p>Relieved he was noticed at all.</p><p>--------------------</p><p><em>But sometimes at night, in my dreams,</em> <em><br/>
Comes the singing of some unheard tropical bird,<br/>
And I smile in my sleep,<br/>
Thinking Annabel Lee's finally made it to the top of the world.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This oneshot is canon compliant I say as I write in a huge swerve to canon right at the end. </p><p>I had a brain-fart halfway through this, so I struggled to write the second half and get it done. But my love for Argo clearly prevailed. So, if anyone wants to hit me up and over analyse some dice rolls, or just want to see my hot-takes for each episode, find me on tumblr <a href="https://honeyed-beans.tumblr.com/">@honeyed-beans</a></p><p>Also! In case anyone was wondering, the wild table magic effect made after the thunderstep was: A random creature within 60 feet of you becomes poisoned for 1d4 hours. Argo didn’t win the saving throw against that, which is why he was so unwell for two hours after the fight :(</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>